Irreplaceable
by Faulty Paragon
Summary: A man sits on the corner of the street, alone in the rain, with nothing but a guitar and a photograph by his side. This man is everything that Roxas has ever asked for - acceptance in a world of rejection. One doesn't need to know the superficial details in order to feel another's heart. AU AxelxRoxas implied LeaxIsa. Inspired by 'The Man Who Can't Be Moved' by The Script.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: ANOTHER old fic. Getting tired of putting this up... but anyways, enjoy. This may be a little more of a sensitive topic to some readers - prepare yourself for it. But as always, enjoy! RxR please.

Inspired by the prompt below, and "The Man Who Can't Be Moved" by The Script.

_I just want you to know that you're very special and the only reason I'm telling you is that I don't know if anyone else ever has. _\- The Perks of Being a Wallflower

* * *

**Irreplaceable**

The stranger was like the rain, coming into Roxas's life that day with little warning or preparation. He had been walking home – his umbrella missing from his hands, for the summer day was supposed to have been sweltering, just like the past few days had been. All he had had for protection was a musty old windbreaker which had been buried in his locker for the last few weeks for some odd reason. As he scurried along emptied boulevards in an attempt to make it home without getting himself ridiculously sick, that was when he saw the stranger.

The man was huddled upon the corner of a busy street, hidden amok sales signs of the coffee shop he sat before. In fact, if it wasn't for his guitar, the fact that he was desperately trying to figure out a way to stay dry while continue playing beside that intersection, and his ridiculously bright red hair, Roxas would have never even seen him. No one else seemed to see the man, after all, continuing on with their daily lives without so much as a second glance at the crimson-headed figure.

But Roxas did – he saw the pitiful figure huddled underneath the awning of the coffee shop upon the corner, arms clutched around his guitar like his life depended upon it, like he would breakapartfalltopieces_die _if he was separated from it. It broke the boy's heart, seeing such turmoil upon this man's face, but after a moment, he resolved to forget it.

He didn't have time to pity others. He had enough to worry about himself.

There was always too much to think about for Roxas. Why he was there, why he even existed, why he was born to such a grand world when he was nothing but a failure and a deadbeat and a pathetic excuse of a human being. He had far too many topics to think about, in fact.

And yet, as he crossed the intersection and continued on his way home, the man's face refused to leave his mind. It was as if he was pleading to Roxas, to come back, to make things right.

But no one helps strangers. That was nothing but a lie, constructed by society in order to keep up the false pretenses of peace and comfort in their cities. After all, when he himself had been crawling through the streets in the dead of night with a bloodied face and a broken heart, no one had reached out to him. It had burned, seeing everyone turn away without a second thought – but that was what the world was like. No matter how many times he was put down, no one ever came to save the day. No one looked out for others.

Just like no one looked out for him.

* * *

For whatever reason, however, just as the sun began to set, he splashed his way through the still empty, waterlogged streets all the way to the corner where the man sat. It was still raining, the thick droplets pounding upon his umbrella mercilessly and the biting wind threatening to pull the hood of his raincoat off of his head. He walked and walked, stumbling here and there, but finally, he made it to his destination.

_He_ was still there, arms forlornly wrapped around the guitar still underneath that same awning of the coffee shop. His lips with bitten red and raw from anxiety, clashing with cheeks – they were pale, ghastly so, with his vibrant red hair matted against his face with the fall of rain, large, nervous emerald eyes darting around in defeat. His long, black leather overcoat resisted the rain, drops of water rolling down his body even though the inside of the coat was dark and waterlogged, large black combat boots visible underneath. He was handsome, Roxas thought absentmindedly – attractive in a broken way, in a way that screamed _maybe if life wasn't such a bitch-_

Unlike Roxas. He was pretty. He had always known it.

But that was his ugliest, most despicable trait – to be pretty.

It was hard to say what had compelled him to do so, but he walked up to the stranger. Roxas didn't have any reason to – there was no relation between the two of them. He had never even seen the man before in his life, nor did he really have any desire to do so, he couldn't meet anyone new - Roxas was different, someone everyone in the world was sick of being near – strangeness and weirdness and _shameburningeverywhere_ until he couldn't even breathe.

He laughed bitterly, sounding more like a bark that a true laugh. He was so, _so _sick of being considered strange.

But when he walked right past the seated man into the coffee shop, only to reappear a few minutes later, his actions surprised them both. He didn't really know why he held out the cup of hot chocolate to the man, before placing his umbrella and that musty old windbreaker he had brought with him upon the table to his right. He didn't know why he sent him that sweet smile, or how he even had the courage to say, "What are you doing here?"

Nervously, the man slipped on the windbreaker before answering his question. "Waiting."

It certainly wasn't what the boy had been expecting, but before Roxas could dig any deeper the man added, "If you see him-" he pulled out a photograph from his pocket, flashing the picture of a handsome, tender young man with a wry, lopsided smile and blue, calm eyes, "-could you tell him where I am? That I'm waiting here?" His thumb moved slightly, revealing the rest of the photograph – the man himself, the blue-haired man's arm wrapped around the redhead's shoulders as he leaned into the other's touch.

But was it the same man before him today? He had looked so happy back then, but now, with his hunched shoulders and sighing eyes, Roxas knew that this wasn't that same man anymore.

"I will." It was a lie, but there wasn't any way that he could break the man's heart anymore. He was sitting there, underneath the awning of that shop for hours on end, for a reason. Roxas had no right to say anything – in a way, after whatever had transpired between the person in the photograph and this broken excuse for a man, he was still stronger than Roxas was. At least he was fighting to get what he lost, back.

* * *

When his feet carried him past the coffee shop the next morning on the way to school, the man was still there. His body was curled against the wall, face buried in the hood of the windbreaker and leather coat and the strap of the guitar case wrapped around his body to alert him of thieves. It wasn't raining anymore, though – so, as Roxas's footsteps plodded on by among the puddles, the splashing startled the resting man into wakefulness.

"I didn't see him," he murmured quietly, pausing beside the prone figure for a moment. "Sorry."

The redhead let out a shaky laugh. "I know," he murmured, turning his head to look up at the streetlamp on their right. "I know."

Roxas didn't question him, but a part of him didn't want to leave. So, the boy continued standing there, watching the stranger sit and stare at the photograph in large, bony hands.

The wind was cold, blowing past him, snaking its fingers underneath the hem of his slightly wrinkled jacket and in the collar of his school uniform. Clearly, the man could feel it more than he, despite the layers – he shivered violently as a particularly strong gust blew.

But this was a stranger. So, Roxas walked away. School was starting soon. Although why he cared, he didn't really know.

However, as he began to plod down the road once more, a voice called, "Thank you!"

He spun around on his heel, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glittering in shock and confusion. Did someone just… thank him?

_No, _he thought weakly, his heart crumbling in the blink of an eye, _no, this isn't right, people don't show gratitude or help or act kind or say things like 'thank you' to people who shouldn't exist-_

"For the hot chocolate!" the other explained sheepishly. "It was good."

But Roxas didn't answer – he was too caught up in simply getting away from that corner, away from that man, who had unknowingly placed the boy in a position of equality. And as much as Roxas had enjoyed it, he knew that he didn't deserve it, and he needed to leave.

* * *

The door leading to his homeroom was only three feet away – three feet, and yet, it might as well have been miles for Roxas. After all, those three feet were just enough to begin another day of torture.

The taller boy before him smirked as he stepped forward, grabbing the frightened one boy the collar. "So, why'd you come today, _chickenwuss_?" he hissed, the others behind him cackling in amusement.

Roxas closed his eyes, steadying his breathing, screaming inside because he was okay, he would be okay, it was all okayokayokay but then a fist landed upon his cheek and he knew he wasn't okay after all. The blow stung, sending him reeling against the whitewashed walls of the corridor, the back of his head colliding painfully with the bottom of a corkboard which had been situated right behind him.

Seifer guffawed at the younger boy's pain as tears spilled out of his scrunched-up eyes. "Aw, I think the little prick is hurt," he called, sending the boys into mocking, uproarious laughter as they watched the smaller boy crouch down and hold the back of his head in his pretty, dainty little hands. "Should we make him feel better?"

The rest sort of numbed out in Roxas's mind – after all, everything just started to feel like fire after a while (except for when the dragged him down the hall to the boy's bathroom, that was more uncomfortable than anything) and he no longer really cared what they did to him. It wasn't like any of the teachers or students would ever say anything about the abuse he suffered.

It took twelve minutes altogether – definitely shorter that day – for Seifer to finally stand straight, shove his hands in his pockets, spit on the boy's face and admire his handiwork. "We did good today," he sniggered, bumping fists with the other three boys who had participated in this session. "See you, lamer."

After a few moments, Roxas was left to the darkness of the empty bathroom, the automated lights switching off at the lack of movement, and he embraced the cool tile upon his cheek and the whirring of the air conditioner above. It was cold, oh so blissfully coldcoldcold and he didn't have to think anymore. Because thinking hurt. Thinking involved… _thinking._

And thinking lead to realizations, and realizations led to understanding why he was currently face down upon the bathroom floor of his school dingy bathroom, his body sprawled out with a fire running through everything. Thinking led to recognizing that while he could still move his fingers and toes, his body underneath the uniform must be completely and utterly _wracked _with bruises, but not his face, which was free of anything but tearstains.

They never touched his face. Apparently, Roxas's 'boyfriend' would get sad if his 'pretty little face' was hurt.

But that was the whole problem. Roxas didn't have a boyfriend. It didn't matter whether he wanted one or not – Seifer had never had any opportunity to find out. Never had there been a real boy in his life, just fleeting attractions – what was the bully basing his abuse on?

And why did it matter so much? Every punch, kick, blow to his body battered his soul, his very self. Was it so wrong to just… _to be who he was?_

It was just because he was pretty.

* * *

He staggered home that day right after getting up out of the bathroom. Class didn't really matter that much to him anyways – he didn't even know why he went anymore. It wouldn't hurt if he left early to tend his wounds at home.

The man was still there, at the street corner in front of the coffee shop. The skies had cleared just a little bit more than they had been that morning, no longer that deep, rumbling, threatening murky grey which had loomed overhead since its unexpected arrival.

The guitar was in his hands, Roxas found. It was strange, seeing him pluck the fingers with surprising skill. However, the melody was quickly lost upon him as the throbbing in his side seemed to intensify, his very bones protesting the act of moving. Everything seemed swollen underneath his shirt and all he wanted to do was just sleep, close his eyes right upon the corner of the road and rest there for eternity.

His mind had wandered, and with it, his concentration – the next thing he knew, large, rough, bony hands were yanking him with considerable force to the side, causing them both to stumble upon the pavement below. Honking, probably from the semi truck which sped down the street where the boy had once occupied, echoed loud and clear down the street. A wince crossed his features as he felt the impact resound in his older bruises, new scratches opening to litter his palms.

His eyes drifted upwards, up towards the man from the corner, who was slowly getting up – he was a lot taller than him, Roxas realized as the towering figure rose above him – the man's face contorting as the other examined the small wounds upon his hands inflicted from the fall. However, those soon became the least of his worries as he spun to glare at Roxas, who flinched visibly underneath the sudden hostility.

The man's eyes softened immediately, seeing how the shorter bowed his head submissively, awaiting some form of reprimand. Roxas bit his lip, waiting for the blow that didn't come. Instead, he felt lanky, slightly damp arms circle around his torso.

"Stupid boy," the man muttered, squeezing him so tightly that Roxas could feel the tremors running through his body at last. "Standing in the middle of the streets like that. What were you thinking? What is a kid like you doing out of school, anyway?"

But Roxas wasn't focusing upon his words – no, there was too much going on by that point. The first and foremost being, _he hadn't been held in a long, long time. _

It felt good to have someone by his side again, if only for a little while.

* * *

At last, Roxas was pulled to his feet and brought to the man's little spot beside the coffee shop upon the corner, the man sitting him down. Shoving hands into his pocket, the man withdrew one, handing the photograph Roxas had seen earlier to the boy. "I'll be back," the taller stated firmly before shuffling into the shop.

When he returned, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand, Roxas was already in tears – not because of the fact that he was hurting from all the wounds, but because what had just occurred had finally sunken in.

_Why didn't he just let me get run over? _Spitefully, the boy glared at the man, ignoring the offered drink in his hand. "Why?" His words were full of hatred, full of anger – after all, why _had _he saved him, when it would have been better for everyone if he had just put him out of his misery?

Instantly, the man understood the message, his eyes moving to the right of the shop sadly. Roxas followed the acid green gaze to the wooden post, eyes rounding in surprise as he saw the small cross which was leaning against it, bouquets of white, mournful flowers and little remembrance letters sodden by rain placed all around them. The petals floated in the puddles, drifting away, taking a piece of the victim with each of them.

The picture on the centre of the cross was a copy of the same one the man had shown him the day before, the same photograph which rested within his hand.

Realization was like a lightning bolt – swift and strong and sure, coming out of the darkness without warning, followed by the rumblings of guilt and understanding. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

The man looked down into his eyes, smiling sadly. No words were spoken between the two, as he silently hugged the guitar to his chest, crimson hair tangled and a complete mess around his face, sleeves dripping underneath the windbreaker.

But then the rain began to quietly pour down once more from the heavens, and Roxas stood and held out his hand for the larger man to take. And when the man did, in fact, hold on to him, large hand suddenly small and cold and frail and scared – it surprised them both. And, without a word, the two began to stumble through the rain once more, the man holding the umbrella Roxas had lent him the day before, the smaller of the two in turn carrying the guitar.

They didn't really talk on the way to his home. He was older than Roxas, it was obvious – there was a strangely exotic maturity that the man carried around himself like a cloak, something that made Roxas's shoulders straighten and his strides to lengthen just a little bit in order to be allowed to walk beside this flame-haired figure.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: And here's the conclusion to 'Irreplaceable'. I hope you enjoyed it! If you haven't checked out the song that this was inspired by, you need to look it up. Seriously. It will change you.

Enjoy! RxR please: )

* * *

**Irreplaceable**

Eventually, they arrived at his apartment. The rain was still steadily pouring, but for some reason, by the time they reached his doorstep, it didn't bother either of them anymore. It was nothing more than a gentle melody tapping upon the plastic overhanging them.

Stepping inside, the elder murmured, "No parents?"

"No."

"That's good," he breathed slowly, a sigh of relief passing thin lips. "I was afraid of how to explain myself."

Roxas grinned bitterly. "Don't worry – they wouldn't care enough to ask you to explain, anyways."

A maroon eyebrow raised at the spiteful words, but the man didn't mutter another word as they pulled off their respective jackets and threw them upon the coat hangers by the door. Rushing inside, the younger set off to find a few extra towels and turn on the kettle – he had to treat his guest to tea or something. The redhead's teeth were chattering uncontrollably upon entry.

However, after bandaging up their visible scrapes (the stranger insisted), drying his hair off with a towel and with a warm cup of tea in his hands, Roxas's guest looked a lot more human. And warm. He looked warmer.

And for some reason, that warmed Roxas too.

However, the way he was studying the blond as they sat side by side upon his on old, beat-up sofa disturbed the boy immensely. There hadn't been another soul in his home (besides the landlord to collect rent) for years, so to see someone sitting there, examining him like he was on display - as if the man was a _customer _of some sort seeking merchandise - intimidated Roxas immensely.

"So why are you always waiting in front of that store?" Roxas ventured at last, desperate to distract all-seeing eyes which seemed to bore into his very soul. "And, if it's so important, why'd you come back with me?"

"I was waiting for him. That's all – I don't really care if no one _does _ever see him. It just… makes me feel warm to think that he is still here with me, somewhere. And," the man said as an afterthought, glancing at the blond, "I left because you needed someone to be with you."

Roxas blushed at that statement, averting his gaze in order to stare at his floor. The laminate tiles were very interesting, he noted vacantly – all the hues and textures and the grains of the wood which seemed to be so smooth. But he couldn't help but smile at the comment. This man really was thinking of him, as a human being, as someone who deserved attention, just as much as Roxas had given him.

The redhead even smiled for him. That itself warmed his heart more than any cup of tea or any towel ever could.

* * *

"You know," the man murmured again after a few minutes of silence, startling the boy to look up once more, "you're pretty cute when you smile."

Instantly, the leering faces of his classmates flashed into his mind. The boy practically hissed in withdrawal, body immediately leaning away from the elder. "Don't fucking call me that," he seethed, anger flashing in his gaze. A part of him sighed inside as he stood up, nearly throwing the mug he was drinking from into the sink before controlling his anger at last. That reaction was getting old. He was tired of using it, of acting like such a defensive ass when even the most innocent of people (although no one was innocent, he knew that) complimented him in that way.

But how could he do anything different when the entire world took that simple statement – _you're pretty cute – _and tormented his very existence with it?

The man watched him wide-eyed for a moment, only to relax with something he could only call pity in his eyes. "Oh, damn, kid, I'm sorry," he whispered, and in that moment, Roxas realized that he understood it all.

And it hurt, to know that this stranger had seen through the torture behind his anger in only a breath.

Hesitantly, as if worried he would run off, the man stood and set aside his mug upon the counter. Bare feet slid across the floor almost silently as he approached Roxas, who was standing in front of the tiny kitchen sink, gripping the counters with such intensity that his already pale skin was practically white, stretched taut across thin knuckles.

"Was that why you were so out of it walking from school?"

The boy bit his lip, but a gentle touch upon his arm and a concerned look down into his eyes had him spilling out the words unintentionally, even as his lip split at the force. "They hate me," he choked out. "They hate me because I'm _pretty._"

"How could someone hate you…" It was more of a statement than an actual question, a phrase murmured under his breath as he continued to hold onto the boy's arm with that reassuring touch, his gaze still softly directed towards the smaller boy. "You're… kind, unlike me."

Roxas snorted. He knew what he looked like in the mirror, he knew what he sounded like – his eyes too big, his smile too soft, his body too lithe and voice too gentle for someone of his gender. He knew what Seifer, his gang, his peers, the _world _saw him as. "They think I'm fucking _gay._"

"Oh." After a moment's hesitation, the man asked, "Well, are you?"

"That's the problem – even if I _am, _is it so wrong? Why can't I be me?"

The elder simply repeated, "Oh." Because there wasn't really anything he could say to that.

* * *

The silence hung heavily in the air, and for Roxas, although he was the one to incite it, it was more than a little discomforting. Waiting for the man to come up with a coherent response (for the younger's words had struck him so dumbfounded that he was forced to simply stand there, immobile, hand loosening its grip upon Roxas's arm, and all the warmth and security which had so quickly built up falling away in the blink of an eye) he took to examining stranger in his kitchen.

The dirt was all gone – no more grime coated the stranger's face from days outside. Now, it was clean, and out of the gloomy precipitation, it actually looked quite handsome. His hair had been dried, sticking back wildly in fierce spikes. Roxas absentmindedly noted that he would have to find the larger man some clothes – still wearing the same ones he had probably worn for _days, _his clothes clung to his lean, firm like a second skin, the water which had soaked in from the rain still not evaporated.

Still - he looked good.

The blond was broken out of his reverie as the arm was suddenly back, suddenly pulling him back to the sofa to sit him down. "That's a stupid reason to gang up on someone," the man spat out. And, after recognition of his tone sank in, Roxas couldn't deny the leap of his heart over this defence over him.

However, a small wince crossed his features as his back collided roughly with the sofa. In the midst of the surprise guest, he had forgotten all about his wounds from Seifer – but now that they were on his mind again, _damn _they hurt-

"Are you okay?"

The look on his face made it clear that no, he wasn't okay, and somehow Roxas found himself sitting before the other without a shirt; but, the shock and horror which registered in the redhead's features was more than enough for his cheeks to burn furiously out of humiliation. No boy could sustain that many injuries and retain his pride.

However, instead of insulting his weakness, the man simply went to the bathroom and grabbed a few towels. And, before Roxas knew it, a bag of ice was gently pressed upon his injuries, a warm, husky voice cooing softly whenever the boy let out that strangled, high-pitched shriek indicating the extreme pain and sensitivity from the wounds. "It's okay, you're alright," he murmured every time the blonde whimpered from the overwhelming pain.

As the man finally wrapped a long bandage around his torso (with trembling fingers, too, Roxas noticed – this outrage at his bruises was so barely concealed, and the boy revelled in it), he couldn't help but wonder why he had let this stranger touch him. No one touched him – not his parents, not his peers. No one.

_I don't even know his name, _the boy realized dimly. _Maybe it's alright because to me, he _is _a nobody. _

It was so true and so false at the same time, but Roxas understood it. It made perfect, sweet sense to him.

Just like this man did.

* * *

It took the man a long time after packing up Roxas's pathetic excuse of a first aid kit to calm down those shaking fingers, as the man stared at his fiddling hands. After a moment, he pulled out that same picture again, of the blue-haired boy, wordless.

At last, he simply said, "I got angry with him that night. When he… left. We were fighting and he took his eyes off the road to respond to an insult I threw at him." The elder's voice was dead, lifeless.

Roxas slowly turned around to face him (he had had Roxas facing away to apply ice packs to his back) with wide, terrified eyes, watching that chiselled face fall and lose that little bit of colour it had regained during the short stay with the boy.

With a snort, the elder reached upwards to rub his rapidly filling eyes. "Isa always told me I was going to be the death of him, but… _fuck, _I didn't think it would be like this. I know what you think of yourself, kid," he whispered harshly, but the words were more lonely than anything else. "You think you're fucked up, some waste of space, some useless piece of _shit _that doesn't deserve to exist. You'd rather be – be run over than be breathing. Right?"

It was like something had punched him in the gut, filling him with dread and, oddly enough, shame. But why was he ashamed to feel how he did, when it was all correct?

Roxas pulled the photo out of the man's trembling hands, and flipped it over to examine the back. _Lea, here's the photo you wanted. –Isa. _

"Lea?" his tentative voice croaked, thick with emotion.

The crimson spikes swayed as the man shook his head. "No. Lea's gone." In a softer voice, he added, "Lea… _left _with him. Lea was nothing without Isa."

The blond simply continued staring at the handwriting, the perfectly shaped letters, just imagining how these two men had been once upon a time, only a few days ago. Lea had probably been the cheerful, energetic one, if the calmness and precision displayed by the printing was any indication of the blue-haired man's taciturn nature.

"We're both fucked up," the man (not Lea, _not anymore_ Roxas remembered) assented at last, hand dropping pitifully in his lap as he gave up in his attempt to stop the flow of tears. "We're both so fucked up, and there's no way to stop it."

Roxas didn't even blink twice when he said, "I know," and placed a comforting hand upon the back of the man's hand. "I know. The world just," he swallowed thickly, "doesn't understand." When the man looked up at him with those tear-filled eyes, gaze so unmistakeably full of loneliness which mirrored his own so perfectly, Roxas immediately wrapped his arms around broad shoulders, waiting to be pushed away. He was vile, he was filthy – Seifer and the others and the whole entire world told him that every day. This man (_this _beautiful _man, _Roxas finally admitted to himself, for crimson hair and jade eyes were absolutely captivating together) didn't need someone as weak as Roxas to protect him. Hell, Roxas was the one needing protection.

But when the man clutched at his shirt, chapped lips finding their way to his own bitten ones, Roxas realized that this man didn't care about all the rumours. This man was like him – he just wanted a stranger to hold, to tell him that it was all going to be okay no matter what the world said.

And so, he felt himself respond, a little part of him triumphant in the fact that as his fingers hurriedly unzipped that leather jacket, revealing a smooth, muscled expanse of skin faintly showing underneath a tight, clingy wet white wife beater, never breaking apart their lips until their lungs gasped for breath. _I'm not what you call me,_ a part of him cheered as his naïve fingers traced strong, masculine features as they gazed at each other, mutual want and understanding in their gazes. _I'm nothing but _me.

* * *

Even before all the pain, the suffering, had begun, Roxas had known that he wouldn't be the type to just give his love away. It was special, he had thought – it was something that only he could give. So, even when he was asked out in middle school (the days when he was popular before they started to suspect him were memories which both brightened and tainted his memories) he had always said no, waiting for the right person to give his first love away to.

There was no one more perfect than this man.

As their bodies surged in synchrony, pleasures reaching their peak, the tears which had transformed into long, breathy moans of want somehow morphed back into the former once more. Amidst it all – the groaning, the heat coiling through their bodies and conducting through the other by every point their skin touched (which Roxas was sure was all of his skin, for he had never felt more encompassed by another than at that moment) the elder managed to whisper to him, clammy forehead flush against his, "Thank you for existing."

And as they reached their bliss simultaneously, bodies shuddering and hands clutching at one another in almost painful joy, Roxas accepted this man's thanks. He understood why they had been given – after all, Roxas had given him what he had needed for so long.

Acceptance. Understanding. Freedom. A chance to move on.

After this, he knew that the man wouldn't need to go back to the street corner to visit the boy's memorial ever again. Maybe one day in the future, when everything was healed and all the little holes in his heart were finally patched up (either by time, himself, or another) but that would not be for a long, long time. Because of Roxas, he had finally realized that he had to let go of the boy on the cross, for the both of them.

The redhead let out a contented sigh as they moved to lay side by side upon the thin mattress, nestling the smaller boy comfortably in his arm. Roxas winced at the pain from his abdomen as the euphoria wore off – the bruises from Seifer were hurting a hell of a lot more than they had been a few minutes before, when he had been _busier._

Letting a hand fall across his eyes, the boy couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. _This is what that strange encounter had led to in the end, _he thought, but although any other boy in his situation might have been appalled by the weight of what had just occurred in his own home, he couldn't help but be overwhelmed by how _right _it had been.

And then, it struck him at last, like the clearing of clouds after a month of rain. He felt _content. _He felt like he had done something right, even if society deemed it wrong (society was wrong about him, wrongwrongwrong and they could stick their opinions up where it hurt for all he cared) and he hadn't felt that way for so, so ridiculously long.

The weight on his bed shifted as the man reached to his bedside table, picking up Roxas's cell phone and positioning it in front of their faces. "Here's proof for those morons who try to bother you - you've got more game than they ever will," the man joked lightheartedly, snapping a photo before Roxas could protest.

But the blond didn't protest, not to him. Thanks to this mysterious man, even if it had been just for one night – no, longer than that, he had felt the gratitude since the hot chocolate and _he _was thankful for it – he had felt wanted by another person, and after the last few years of loneliness, sorrow (darkness, _nothingness)_ in his heart, that meant more than anything else in the world.

* * *

As his eyes fluttered open the next morning, a soft groan escaped his lips as the soreness from all his injuries attacked his befuddled nerves all at once. Slowly pushing himself upon his elbows, he let out a small yawn, looking around him groggily.

_He's gone, _he realized, but the thought didn't hurt him as much as he had subconsciously thought it would.

It had been clear that it would just be a one night stand. No, one night stand didn't do it justice – it was a night for healing, for picking up lost pieces and reconnected the shards of his shattered soul. And it had worked beautifully, because no matter how much his wounds ached and burned, he felt so strangely _whole _that the entire house seemed to sparkle with life, instead of greeting him with its usual deathly emptiness.

It wasn't like the man was obliged to stay with him, anyways. _I still don't know his _new_ name, _Roxas thought, picking up his phone from the nightstand where the man had put it back after the photo. A weary laugh emerged as their faces, still dewy and blissful from the aftershocks of making love, greeted him from his phone's wallpaper. The stranger had had the gall to put that picture up…

But he didn't mind. They had been fated to stay strangers – nothing more, nothing less. After all, the way they had entered each other's lives had been so sudden, so unconventional, that there was no way that they could have stayed behind with the momentum carrying them farther away every second.

In his half-dressed state, he found a note upon the kitchen counter as he went to make himself a cup of tea. _Go to school, _it read. _I'll be okay. You'll be okay, too._

Roxas grinned widely at that, blushing a bit when he saw a little heart in the bottom of the note, along with a hasty, _Just show them the picture if they have any problems. I can take them down anytime. _He had given up his first to this man, the entire experience still feeling like some far-off, hazy dream that he wouldn't mind having again.

Just imagining Seifer's shock made him feel stronger.

Still, life moved on (and as he realized, he had to move on too) and he made a move to go get dressed for school, just as the redhead had told him too. However, just before he re-entered his room, a large, sleek object by the door of his apartment caught his eye. Approaching it, he gasped a little seeing that it was the guitar, the case still damp from the rain it had been subjected to.

A yellow sticky note was placed on top of the zipper to open the case, the scrawl undeniably matching the note left upon the kitchen counter. _I'll leave this to you. It was Isa's – it had been his brother Demyx's before, but that's alright, Dem won't miss it – but, I think that Isa'd like you to have it. You remind me of him. You're both so warm – you made me feel like I still have a heart. _Roxas sucked in a deep breath before reading out loud, "You'll do better by him. Let it comfort you on rainy days. And don't you ever feel ashamed to hear that you're beautiful ever again, because you really, truly are."

He didn't even bother touching the instrument, instead turning on his heel and heading back to get changed into some casual clothes. He could go face Seifer the next day – right then, he had something he needed to do.

Absentmindedly, he noted the rain pattering upon his window. It was still going, and he was happy for it – that meant that the man hadn't left him completely yet.

* * *

He stretched towards the sky, feeling his muscles ease out of their aching stiffness from the strange position he had eventually fallen asleep in. Opening bleary eyes, a tiny yawn escaped his lips as he propped up his sign on his knee and leaned back against the wall of the coffee shop once more.

That rain hadn't stopped yet.

It was out of the blue, he thought nostalgically – the weather reports had said it to be clear skies all week. But then again, some of the best things in life were the spontaneous ones, so he didn't mind. _He _had come, just like the rain. And that stranger had been one of the best things to ever happen to him.

It had been four days since Roxas had begun staking out the coffee shop. Four days since he had left, and not once had it stopped raining. He took it as a good sign, the only downside being that he couldn't pull out the guitar which leaned against the wall by his side in its case and play around with it.

He grinned sadly, thumbing the photograph upon the screen of the phone in his hands with such affection in his eyes that tears threatened to spill. And in return for his sadness, a voice asked, "Are you okay?"

He peered upwards at the speaker, his lips curled into a small smile. "I'm fine," he murmured in response, trying to ease the look of concern in the platinum blonde girl's eyes. Facing the picture outwards so that she could see, he added, "Hey, if you see this guy, could you tell him where I am?"

"Shouldn't you be in school right now?" the girl asked, frowning amusedly as she saw how scandalous the photo was. His knowing smile didn't fade as a response, and she nodded slowly, understanding and assurance creeping into her gaze. She smoothed out the skirt of her pure white dress and straightened upright. "Well then. You're strong, for waiting here for him. He's a lucky man."

Roxas shook his head, eyes drifting off to the right, where the memorial of the car accident was. Now, however, all that remained was a wooden cross pinned to the post – the flowers, notes, _memories _had eventually been swept away by the rain. "No," he commented thoughtfully. "He was the strong one. I'm just trying to see if I can impact someone, like how he changed my life." He paused, murmuring, "You're kind, you know – for talking to a stranger like this." More quietly, more towards himself, he added softly, "I understand how he felt now when I spoke to him." _Because these little things define who you are. I know how to stand up to the others now – I know what's important now._

The girl laughed softly, not hearing his private addend. "No, I'm not that kind – but I promise you, I'll let him know where you are if I see him." With that, the stranger walked away – but not before leaving behind her umbrella for the boy to use. He wasn't sitting underneath the covered area, after all.

The boy grinned in response as the girl walked away, her nude heels clicking rapidly as she ran to get out of the rain. Maybe she'd come back the next day – maybe she wouldn't. He wasn't sure if he would even still be there the next day, even if that girl did come back, for his job there was done. Roxas knew that he had made a mark upon someone else, that girl who was struggling to escape the showers right then, by giving her a reason to lend her umbrella and share a few words with a passing stranger. He had managed to change the start of her day, to cause something unexpected to happen. And maybe that was more important than clinging onto memories, than waiting with that photograph in hand, after all.

He stood and stretched, and, with a content sigh, he slung the case over his shoulder and grabbed the umbrella by its handle, walking off into the street to head back home. If he hurried, he might be able to make it back in time for his afternoon classes.

And, strangely enough, the rain stopped, and in his heart, he said goodbye to the man who had told him he was beautiful when no one else would. He didn't mind it. It was the right time to let go.

_fin_


End file.
